Peace of Mind
by CaptainWentworth
Summary: Percy navigates High School and all of its delicious complications.
1. Chapter 1

It was 7:45 am on August 12th and I, alongside my since-birth best friend, Grover Underwood, was walking eastward down the southernmost hallway of Northview High School, located in Westfield, Upstate New York. Classes didn't start for another 15 minutes but the hallways were already bustling with people, none of whom I had ever seen before. The very eastern wall of the school, to which we were headed, was made of floor-to-ceiling windows which framed the rising eastern sun. It had rained last night, so mist hovered in patches above the well-kept grass of the eastern lawn, dampening the brightness of the sun to the extent that it could be looked upon directly as an ornate orange sphere. The beauty of the scene would probably have transfixed me, if it were not for my damn shoes.

The bottoms of my shoes were wet from the walk from my mom's Carolla the school entrance, and they made a horrendous ' _SQUICK'_ every time I lifted my foot from the tile floor. I silently cursed myself for allowing my mom to convince me to wear my new shoes for my first day at school. However, there was no 'convincing' at all to be done. My previous pair of shoes had endured several blow-outs - held together only by my mom's patchwork, and had disintegrated entirely three days ago when I had left them outside under the rain. The shoes I currently wore, a pair of brilliantly blue converse, costed 50$ that my mom didn't have. I told her she didn't have to, I told her I could borrow a pair of Grover's and that she should use the money to pay rent, but she insisted. Although my mom struggled on her own to let us live in our 600 square foot, one bedroom apartment, she still managed to spoil me.

I looked to my right and saw Grover, shuffling along in a very distinct Grover-like manner. His knees and elbows were particularly bony, and the limbs containing them were long and lanky. He had hit his growth spurt at an unusually young age, leading to chronic joint aches, growing pains, and shin splints. Despite this he was unusually fast and could dunk a basketball at 5 ' 10''. He weighed very little and, coupled with his phenomenal grip strength, was somewhat of a climbing prodigy. Before we moved to our new school district, he and I used to go bouldering at an indoor climbing gym, where I would marvel as he would dance around with his toes and fingertips all over the walls and ceiling.

However, none of that grace showed today as Grover lumbered along, his oversized tennis shoes only worsening his already awkward gait, almost to the point of limping. His Rasta Hat sat lopsided on his head and parts of his curly hair protruded in the front and on the side. To complete his outfit he wore a grey hoodie and green sweatpants, both of which he had owned for years.

I looked to my left and caught my own reflection in the glass of the trophy display case across the hallway. I slowed down to study my own appearance. My hair, as usually, was an enigma, a complex network of cowlicks and waves which resolved itself into a formless, flowing mass that, as my mom would say, looked like a storm at sea. She loved my unruly hair, and made a point of it every morning to jostle my hair around before kissing me on the forehead and sending me out the door.

I looked at my get-up and realized that, by accident, I had dressed in entirely blue clothes. My shirt was a collared, baby blue button-up (which my mom insisted I wore), my pants were blue jeans, and my blue converse were framed by navy blue socks. _Idiot,_ I thought to myself.

As I finished my self-inspection, my gaze shifted to behind the glass at the shelves of trophies and plaques which lined the wall. The trophies were divided into sections, State Championships, Regional Championships, Sectional Championships, each overflowing into multiple display cases with pictures, statues, plaques, and ribbons. I thought of my old school's trophy display case, boasting a 2nd place team regional swimming trophy (which I had helped win) and a commemorative wax figure of a golfer, which had unfortunately melted, giving it the appearance of having a red, waxy penis. _I guess that's the difference between a 4000 student school and a 150 student school,_ I noted mentally.

My old school did, in fact, only have 150 students, and none of them were rich. The official name of the school was "The Project School", and it was a failed experiment. The premise behind its inception was to "synthesize an environment ... with an unwavering focus on service to others and mother earth … coupled with academic excellence", as it's website proclaimed. While being noble in their ideals, the school's founders were quite naive in believing all of these elements could co-exist, especially the "academic excellence" component. I attended it for my freshman and sophomore year and received all A's, albeit, my classes (and I only had four) were splatter painting, botany, meditation, and hiking. The school didn't have teachers but rather a committee of well-intentioned hippies, whom we called "mentors" and referred to by their first name (Mr. Ben was by botany mentor and Mrs. Susan was my meditation mentor). In the three years it operated, standardized test scores were consistently terrible and, due to this, its funding was entirely discontinued after the third year.

My time spent there was essentially a two-year void in my academic career, which left me totally unprepared for my re-integration into the world of schoolwork - the world I would be thrown into this year. However, I can't blame my mom for sending me to the Project School. She saw the place as a school open enough to accept me for all of my numerous faults - a place that would see past my tainted academic track record to the sweetheart darling my mom knew I really was. She, however, was one of the only ones who recognized this version of myself.

You see, my first two expulsions were for juvenile reasons. The first had to do with sexually explicit graffiti on the side of the school (if Michelangelo can carve balls and have it displayed as fine art but I can't spray paint them on the side of my middle school, something is wrong with the world), and the next had to do with a racoon in the ventilation system (how was I supposed to know it had rabies?). However as I grew older, the nature of my expulsions changed.

My third expulsion occurred at my third middle school. At that time Grover's growing pains were so bad that he was temporarily confined to a wheelchair, which made him the target of endless teasings. It was something I couldn't bear to watch. Kids would steal his rasta cap, knowing he couldn't retrieve it, shove sticks in his wheelchair spokes and stack books behind his wheels while he wasn't looking so he would fall over backwards when he tried to reverse. One day in Social Studies, a kid named Dylan Strausser called him retarded from the back row during a presentation. I silently walked to the back of the class, fists clenched, grabbed the collar of his shirt and socked him right in the cheek as hard as I could.

Immediately afterwards I was shocked at what I had done. I even felt bad for the little douchebag, but there was no taking it back. And there was blood. If it weren't for the blood I probably would have just been suspended - but as soon as his nose started pouring red, I knew I was a gonner. After I was expelled, Grover decided he had had enough torment and transferred away with me. When my mom found out she didn't know what to think. Naturally she was angry with me for punching a kid in the face, but most of her anger was at the school administration for their all-too hasty decision to expel me. My mom always found a way to be on my side.

My fourth expulsion shouldn't have ever happened. It was at a real snooty school and the principal was a real sh-

"Percy!" Grover shook my shoulder, pulling me out of my contemplative daze. "That was the one-minute bell, we need to get to class."

I grunted, shouldered my backpack, and began to walk down the hallway, which was rapidly depopulating as students hurried off to their classes. I quickened my pace and ' _SQUICK'_ d my way down to the end of the hallway, turning left at the floor-to-ceiling windows, only to be suddenly confused.

"Percy," Grover said, "Doesn't that sign say 200's?"

"Yeah…"

"Isn't the english wing the 600's?"

I fumbled around In my pocket and extricated a crumpled map of the school, unfolded it, and attempted to decipher it. I saw our location, and confirmed that we were indeed, at the entrance to the 600's hallway. I then watched, incredulously, as the number 6 on my map crawled its way like an ant across the page and was replaced by a foggy number 2, which continue to undulate and blur in and out of focus. _Either there were some questionable herbs in my tea this morning, or we gave the map to the dyslexic guy,_ I thought to myself.

"How about I take a look at the map, Percy." Grover ventured, reaching for the map. I yanked it away from his grasp and glared at him. He looked back at me pleadingly and I reluctantly handed him the map.

"Fine. Guide us Sacagawea." I muttered.

"Sure thing …. Helen."

"Helen of Troy?"

"Keller."

"Dick." Was my retort, though I couldn't help but smile as we started our trek across the school.

We eventually found our way across the school, accompanied the entire time by the rhythmic squelching of my shoes. We were already five minutes late by the time we reached the desired doorway, to the right of which was a plaque which read **613 - Blofis**. I noticed an array of dots just below the room number and name, which I recognized as braille. _For students like me_ , I thought.

Grover and I entered the room (which, thankfully, was carpeted) and were greeted by the stares of 25 other students, all sizing us up. I had grown somewhat accustomed to this process during my numerous transfers during middle school, but nothing had prepared me for this feeling of isolation. At every new school I had come to, I went in with the same expectation: this year was going to be a battle, me against everyone else. I tried to give my best challenging stare to the wall of faces in the room, but my gaze shifted to my feet. I became very aware that I was wearing entirely blue clothes and that my hair was a mess and that my arms were hanging stiffly by my sides, so I readjusted and crossed them in front my chest - which felt weird - so I adjusted again and shoved them in my pockets with an audible sigh. At that moment I realized that this battle, myself against high school, was one I was already losing.

"You must be Percy Jackson, and you Grover Underwood?" A tall, clean-looking man with thin-rimmed glasses and sandy hair said as he approached us.

"That's us." I responded.

"Glad you could make it. There are seats for you two in the corner." he said, gesturing towards one of the tables.

"Alright." I breathed in reply. I recognized his snide remark about my tardiness and already felt antagonism brewing between us.

Grover followed me to the table as I selected the chair furthest in the corner, giving me a view of the entire room and the exit. I always sat down facing the doorway of a room, it was a compulsion of mine. I never wanted anyone to have the ability to enter or exit a room that I was in without my knowing, and I always wanted to know the exact location of any exit if I needed to make a quick escape. My chair was also perfect in that it let me clearly see all of my classmates; this way I could, over time and through careful observation, get to know the nervous habits, personalities, and tendencies of everyone in the room, in case any of them happened to become my enemies. This was how my mind had always worked, chronically poised, restless and greedy for new information. Within seconds I had the layout of the room, posters, lamps, chairs, and bookshelves all memorized.

My mind was insufferable. Concentrating for a prolonged period of time on a specific task (especially homework) was nearly impossible. I could never focus attention while my mind strained to internalize the minutiae of my surroundings: the humidity of the air, the sound of the clock, and even my own heartbeat. All of my childhood doctors had diagnosed me with extreme ADHD, and most of them had tried to prescribe me the most powerful of the ADHD medications, to all of which my mom had adamantly refused. I resented her for this for a long time, the prospect of a single pill curing my mental unrest was all I had ever wanted, until a single event changed my perspective entirely.

A year and a half ago, I and four other friends were driving around in a Range Rover, which the driver had stolen from her parents. It was a rainy January night and everyone, besides me, had been drinking. I should have been driving, but at the time I hadn't taken Driver's Ed and the driver insisted she was only tipsy. Music was playing loudly as the driver awkwardly handled the steering wheel, jerking the car around while trying to stay on the road. We were outside of city limits and the road was windy, unkempt, and without lane dividers. The road sat perched along a ridgeline which dropped off of the right at a significant height from the black surface of the town's reservoir. Someone told a joke and the cabin of the car filled with drunken laughter. Everyone was so distracted that no one noticed the driver's head lazily slump to the right. The right tires moved off of the road and into the mud, pulling the car to the edge of the ridgeline on our right. I unbuckled my seatbelt, lunged from the back right seat and into the drivers lap, using my right hand to pull the handbrake and my left hand to yank the wheel to the left. Just in time, the car skidded back into the road, spinning 180 degrees and careening backwards into a gulley on the left side of the road. I was thrown into the back seat of the car, slamming my head on a headrest as glass shattered around me. I had already lost consciousness as the Range Rover groaned to a halt in a couple of seconds after grinding against the embankment. It was a miracle we all survived, considering none of us had been wearing our seatbelts.

Whenever I recall the incident, I remember that it was my sobriety and attention that had kept the minivan from plunging into the icy reservoir. I also remembered the bleary expressions by friends all had in the moments leading up to the crash; there was something comical about them in a macabre sort of way. In their bliss-filled stupor they were totally unaware of their imminent deaths, almost like cows being led into a slaughterhouse. From that day on, I resolved to never be like my friends, to never forgo my state of tormented conscious for any such relief, whether it be from alcohol, or any prescribed ADHD medication. -

\- Mr. Blofis sat at his desk, peering through the bottom lense of his bifocals at his computer monitoring, clicking his mouse as he scanned the room table by table. Once he finished taking attendance, he stood up from his desk and enthusiastically addressed the room "Hello class! How is everyone doing today?" A few tentative affirmations and nervous murmurs followed. "I said, how is everyone doing today?" He repeated in a louder voice. Again he was met by a few quiet voices and some shuffling of feet. He sighed and put on a smile. "Alright, tough crowd I see. I get it, first day of school and most of you are probably hung over." This time snickers filled the room and people turned in their chairs to face the front of the room, suddenly intrigued. I remained silent and motionless, _So he's one of those kinds of teachers,_ I thought to myself. "I'm kidding - of course - " He added, seeing the mortified looks on the faces of some of the students. "My name," he continued, turning his back to the class to write his name on the chalkboard, "Is Paul Blofis. I go by Mr. Blofis, though students in the past have called me Mr. B. Either one is fine with me." Paul said, dropping the chalk and turning around to face the class.

In the back right corner of the room, a student with brown curly hair raised his hand with a shit-eating grin smeared on his face.

"What do you want, Connor. " Mr. Blofis said, rolling his eyes in playful exasperation.

"Can we call you Mr. Blowfish." Connor asked, grinning.

"If I say yes will you stop asking stupid questions." Mr. Blofis retorted. A chorus of _ooooos_ sounded from the classroom. It was clear Mr. Blofis had previously had Connor as a student. My mind processed and organized the information internally, _so he's the class clown_. Connor sat back in his chair defeated as Mr. Blofis turned his attention back towards the room. "Currently you are all in period 1, English 11 AP." He began, "Is everyone in hear in the correct classroom?" No one spoke up, but I was tempted to.

What on earth was I doing in an AP class, especially an English one? I had never received higher than a B in any English class I had ever taken. English was half writing, half reading, and I was disabled with regards to the latter. I knew, going into it, that I could not possibly do well in this class. I felt utterly hopeless, like an amputee trying to do the hokey pokey. Of course it was my mom's idea for me to be in this class. Although my academic career was nothing but a chronicle of failure, my mom had the highest expectations of me. Her high expectations had always made me wonder, _What does she see in me?_ , or, _she must know something about me that I don't._

"Good." Mr Blofis continued. "Then let's get started right away. Everyone get out your summer reading books please."

I froze in total shock, _Summer reading?! What?! How the hell was I supposed to know?!_ I looked around the room in horror as people shuffled around in their backpacks, each producing copies of "The Great Gatsby", most of them bulging with post it-notes, filled with annotations.

 _You've got to be kidding me._ Here I had come to school, a new shirt, new shoes, finally on the same level as everybody else. Coming to this school was supposed to be a fresh start; I needed to be, deserved to be on a level playing field with my classmates, for a chance to finally prove that I could succeed. Instead, I was staring failure in the face. I knew what would happen, there would be a quotes test, group work, and some form of essay, and in each I would receive a grade corresponding to my level of knowledge of the book. There was no way I could read it in time. No - not even if I really wanted to - not even if I stayed up all night and until the next day until my eyes turned bloodshot. No - with my dyslexia, it would take at least a month of constant, agonized reading to complete it. Utter defeat swept over me; I felt my palms turn sweaty and I felt very warm under my shirt. I looked around the class, but my vision was tinted red by the veil of anger. As it turned out, it was Grover that a was going to bear the brunt of my aggression.

"Percy - dude - He told us to get out our books." Grover whispered to me, holding his copy of the Great Gatsby. I shot him a murderous glare, clenched my fists, and inhaled a shaky breath. At first he looked confused, then, reading my expression, his eyes widened in shock. "Oh gosh … sorry dude - I thought you knew. It was on the school's website the whole summer."

I sustained my contemptuous stare for a moment longer before replying, raising my voice to a loud, nasty whisper "You didn't think to tell me!? Grover you _know_ me. Why would you _ever_ assume I had checked the school's website."

Grover's look of shock was replaced with one of indignation. "Percy don't you dare put this on me. You should have expected this man, its AP English!"

"That doesn't mean you couldn't have told me! This is my first time ever in a real high school and you just 'assumed' I would know? What the hell?" I spat, drawing the attention of people around our table.

My response hit Grover like a punch. Then, for the first time since I had know him, Grover swore. "Goddamit Percy this is my first year in high school also. You seem to forget I spent the past five years following your dumb ass around from school to school watching you get expelled."

I slammed my fists on the table, causing Grover to jump back in his seat. He stared at me wide-eyed, taken aback by my sudden display of aggression, and his eyes weren't the only pair. Suddenly I was a fish in a bowl, staring out through the glass and into the eyes of onlookers. It felt claustrophobic, trapped, and exposed. "I'm going to get a drink of water." I told the room flatly, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, heading towards the door.

Mr. Blofis regarded me with concern. "Just where are you going Mr. Jackson? Hey! Stop r-", but I was already out of the door, storming down the hallway. Tears welled in my eyes; I felt so betrayed, disappointed, and angry, all at myself. I had blown off the summer reading and worse, had stormed out of my first class on the first day of school. Worst of all, I was crying. I was so caught up in my own despair that I didn't hear Mr. Blofis come racing up behind me.

I heard a gentle voice call to me from behind my back. "Percy," Mr. Blofis began in a measured tone, one that sounded exceedingly like my mother. The uncanny similarity caused me to respond in a Pavlovian manner as I stopped entirely. "Percy, take a deep breath. Tell me whats going on."

 _Now he's talking to me like I'm a child. Well, probably because you're acting like one. Don't let him see that you're crying._ With my back still turned to Mr. Blofis, I started walking again.

"Percy," Mr. Blofis repeated calmly, "I give you permission to get a drink. Class is, however, not over for another 50 minutes. Slake your thirst then return to class. I will expecting you back in 5 minutes."

 _What? No angry tirade? No referral straight to the office?_ I glanced over my shoulder and saw his expression, a grimace, comprised of pity and anxiety. It was the expression my mother wore when I would fall off of my bicycle and scrape the skin off of my knee. Right now, I hated seeing it. _He's not your mother, yet he looks at me like she does. Here I am, a wallowing, stupid, insolent child._

"As you were." He said finally, studying my contorted face and red, welling eyes. He then turned and walked back towards the doorway and into the classroom.

After he disappeared from sight, and well after, I stood, motionless. _He's letting me go? What kind of teacher does this?_ I remembered his offer: " _Slake your thirst then return to class",_ and I knew I had to comply. I realized what he had done. He had, so casually, offer me a new chance, a do-over, an opportunity to re-start high school, and it only took 15 minutes. I still had a book to conquer, but right now, I still had a chance to recover.

I walked over to the drinking fountain and leaned against the lever. Water shot from the nozzle in a laminar arc and pooled into the drain. I stood, just like that, for another minute, just watching the flow of water. " _Like waves in a sea,"_ my mother would often say to me, " _watch your thoughts emerge, crest, and sink back down. Do not try to follow them. Just watch them come and go. Up, and then down - up, and then down - up, and then down."_ Staring at the arc of water, while also at nothing at all, I saw all of my thoughts and emotions, indignation, anger, pride, and grief emerge into my mind, then recede - emerge and recede - emerge and recede - like waves in a choppy sea. I observed as the waves began to shrink. They kept shrinking and shrinking until the point that none of them crested. Soon they became ripples, ripples on the sea of my mind. -

\- When I walked back into class, everyone had been separated into groups and were sitting around the room, lounging around on the carpet, or sitting with their feet propped up on tables. Mr. Blofis was walking around the room, checking in on each group and guiding their discussion of The Great Gatsby. Only a few people gave me weird looks as I walked back into the room, the others occupied with discussion. Mr. Blofis turned around, saw me standing in the doorway, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He walked up to me and spoke, just as carefully as he did in the hallway. "It's good to see you again Percy. Right now we're discussing the summer reading book in small groups. You can ch-"

"I didn't read the book." I interrupted bluntly, warranting a surprised look from my teacher. My voice caught the attention of Grover, and he gave me a stone-faced glare from across the room. I met his gaze head-on and shot daggers at him with my green eyes. He quickly turned his head sheepishly away, _Fool thought he could out-stare me_ , I gloated internally.

Mr. Blofis pondered for a moment, studying my face. This time, I stood fast under his scrutiny. No more waves of emotions rolled over me, and I was able to look straight into his eyes. He studied me carefully, concernedly, as my mother would when she thought I was perturbed. He leaned in closer to me and spoke in a hushed tone. "I think we can negotiate an alternative assignment for you Percy. It will be time-consuming, but I won't make you read the book." I stared at him, shocked by his display of compassion. Who was this man?

"I'll do it." I responded immediately.

"Good." Mr. Blofis said, we'll discuss the alternative after cl-"

"Why are you being so generous?" I interrupted, again. That was a habit of mine, asking indulgent questions, well, because I wanted to know the answer. No matter how personal or invasive the question was to the other person, I would always ask it. Whether the question offended the recipient was unimportant, their actions and thoughts had constructed their own sore spots and tendernesses. My questions would massage these sore spots: some people, who were closed to communication entirely, or with sorenesses lying so deep within they were beyond remedy, would retract and respond with hostility. I alienated a great many of these people in my life. Others, those who were more open, would relax and answer my question honestly, allowing me to massage their tightness. It often hurt initially, but quickly they tightness would subside and they would become relaxed, giddy almost. _Which kind of person was Mr. Blofis_?

Mr. Blofis sighed and moved closer to me. "Percy, I met with your mother, privately, before the beginning of the year. We had a discussion about your past, and your future here at this school." My eyes grew wider as he continued. "We're all working together. Me, your mom, and a few other teachers to ensure that your experience here is … worth while."

"What did you discuss?" I asked narrowing my eyebrows. This rendered another sigh from Mr. Blofis before he answered.

"We talked about you, Percy. All about you. I know what you must be assuming and no, your character did not need discussion."

"Of course it didn't." I said, laughing without humor. "I'm a public nuisance. Let me ask you, did they include a criminal record with my file?" My question was sardonic, yet there was a small part of me that was curious. I wondered if they would include an account of my court trial when I was thirteen. Dylan Strausser, the kid I socked in the face, had a very rich, and very angry family, who sued me on charges of assault and battery. Although I was acquitted, it cost my mom a fortune to find and pay for a lawyer. This also just happened to occur right as my mom lost her job. Quite simply, the mortgage couldn't be paid, so I, the thirteen year old assaulter along with my desperate mother, sold the house we had lived in for exactly thirteen years.

Mr. Blofis again let out a great sigh. _I'm really not making this easy for him - lets see how much he can endure_. "No, Percy, there was no criminal record. Although, I am quite impressed with the record of your expulsions." He said, a grin forming on his face. "They including a photo of your graffiti in your file, quite the artistic vision you possess."

A smile started to form on my lips, against my will. I tried to clamp my mouth in place, but my eyes betrayed my intentions.

"And the raccoon - oh Percy - you wouldn't believe the extraordinary detail included in your file! To spend months befriending it by feeding it cafeteria food, then to one day lure it into the ventilation system, all to avoid a presentation - you genius! You utter scoundrel!"

Feigning indifference was becoming nearly impossible for me.

"And what you said to that one principal - god - I could only dream of saying those words to my boss. I would get fired on the spot, no doubt."

My composure broke and I let out a genuine laugh. Mr. Blofis smiled in satisfaction. _The bastard has me under his control,_ I thought, _God I'm such a little kid. One minute I'm crying and the next I'm laughing._

I shook the smile from my face and resumed a neutral expression. In response, Mr. Blofis' dropped his teasing expression, but the light in his eyes remained. "No Percy, we never discussed your character because we didn't have to. Sally's judgement is never misaligned."

His last statement flowed out so smoothly, no naturally, that he didn't catch how much it had revealed. _He referred to her as "Sally" not "your mother", and with such assumed intimacy! How could he know her judgement was never misaligned? What evidence does he have to support that claim other than a history of interaction and close observation?_

I simply had to probe, it was in my nature. "What is your relationship with my mother?" I asked, coming out more as an accusation than a question. Mr. Blofis' expression changed entirely. I've pushed him too far.

"I've … known your mother for some time, Percy," Paul said carefully.

My compulsion to probe further was like a terrible itch, _Who the heck is this guy and how does he know my mom_? I looked at his face and saw his guarded expression. I realized, at that moment, that I was teetering on the verge of alienating him. He was so far, the first tolerable connection I had made here at this school, and a potential valuable future asset. Painfully, I decided not to scratch the itch. I decided this would be a conversation that would be better if I had it with my mother. Resolved on my decision, I simply nodded at Mr. Blofis.

Mr. Blofis was the one to break the silence. "Right. Follow me to my desk. We will begin discussing your alternative assignment." -

\- We didn't discuss the assignment. For the last half hour of class I asked him question after question, and learned quite a lot about him. I learned that he drove a blue prius with 360,000 miles on it. I learned that he lived by himself in an apartment and owned 2 cats, one named Mozart and the other named Brahms. Behind his desk he pinned up a poster of band called the _Aquaholics,_ a name I had no image for but seemed strangely familiar. A photo sat framed on his desk showing himself among a group of Africans perched atop a rooftop configuring solar panels. At at the bottom there was the word "Nansana" written in sharpie.

"Cool picture you have there." I stated, gesturing towards the picture.

"Sorry?" He said looking at me inquisitively, "Oh! Right, yes. That was only two years ago, actually. That was in Uganda, I was working with Greenpeace on improving village infrastructure."

"So you're very new to teaching then?"

"Not as new as you think. I taught for five years in Indiana, and had quit my job to make the African excursion. It was truly an incredible experience and - believe me - the fulfillment it gave me was indescribable. However, I knew from the beginning that a life working in those conditions was more alien than I could handle. Teaching was always my true calling." He finished, reaching out to his desk to grab a cup of coffee before returning to face me.

"You're a regular Mother Teresa huh?" I asked, smirking.

"I guess you could say that." He responded coyly before taking a sip of his coffee. After he finished taking his drink, he looked back up at me, and for a moment we simply sat in a state of exchanged perusal. His eyes were warm and playful behind the lens of his bifocals, and a single strand of sandy hair fell curved across his forehead, resting between his eyebrows. This time I was the one to break the silence.

"Greenpeace huh? How many miles are on your Prius again?." I asked, looking downwards while picking at my fingernails.

Mr. Blofis smiled and adjusted his glasses in feigned indignation. "Mock me now. But don't start blubbering when the Arctic Ice sheets are all gone and the Atlantic raises to waist deep in your kitchen."

"Sure, but just imagine the appreciation of real estate. We'd have a beachfront property!" I replied quickly, earning a chuckle from Mr. Blofis.

"Never mind real estate, I don't think you'd _appreciate_ a recently homeless polar bear wandering south and eating your dog instead of a seal." He replied with a snort.

I scoffed, "I'm not worried about Mrs. O'Leary, I think my dog could take a polar bear. I think you should be the one worrying, rising seawater could destroy the hydroponic garden in your basement."

Mr. Blofis nearly spit out his coffee. "How on earth do you know about my hydroponic garden?" He demanded loudly, drawing the attention of several students in the room.

"I didn't. You just confirmed my suspicion." I responded with as much boredom as I could muster, stroking my chin to hide my satisfaction.

The other students in the room turned away from us and back to their occupations. Mr. Blofis set his cup of coffee down completely and regarded me carefully. He tilted his head downwards, studying me over the top rim of the bifocals like and orthodontist peering downwards into a patient's mouth.

I pretended to ignore his examination as I spoke again. "Mind if I have a sip of your coffee?" I asked, coming out more snidely than I intentioned.

Without lowering his gaze, Mr. Blofis reached to his desk, grabbed the coffee mug, and extended it towards me. "It's decaf." He said, still without relaxing his stare.

"That's fine." I said as I took the cup. Still under his intense scrutiny, I brought it to my mouth and took a sip. "Thank you." I said, extending the cup to him. He extended his arm and grasped the cup tentatively, as if at any moment I would douse him with its contents. Just then the bell rang, signalling the end of class. He took the cup from me, set it on his desk, and turned to face the room.

"Alright class! Wednesday we will be taking the quotes test. I have posted a study guide on my website which will help you greatly -" His voice trailed off as the last few students in the room shuffled out the door, totally ignoring Mr. Blofis' announcement. Soon it was just me and Mr. Blofis alone in the room.

I stood up and jostled my backpack from the back of the chair, drawing the attention of Mr. Blofis. He turned to look at me and a quizzical frown took over his face. "We never did discuss your assignment, did we?" He asked, mostly to himself.

I gave no response other than a shrug as I stretched my back, gave a great yawn, ran my fingers through my hair and shouldered my backpack all before walking past him and out of the room. I heard him call from behind me just as I reached the threshold.

"I won't be spoiling you for long."

 _Yeah, we'll see about that,_ I said silently, walking into the hallway to face the rest of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

After my conversation with Mr. Blofis, my spirits remained generally uplifted; Grover's however, did not. Even though Grover and I shared every class for the remainder of the day, including Physics, Calculus, and US History, we never spoke a word to each other. During lunch we sat in silence; Grover chewed on a tin foil sandwich wrapper or forlornly stabbed his fork into soggy cafeteria broccoli. Whenever our eyes would meet he would quickly, bashfully, look away. _No wonder. Since my outburst in English he probably thinks I could go off at any second. He is a afraid of me._ Feeling guilty, I mentally resolved to bridge the gap between us. I turned and looked at the side his face, intending to start a conversation. Instead, I took to studying his pronounced Adam's apple, skinny arms, and the wispy hairs sprouting from under his chin. I thought he looked a lot like Shaggy from the old Scooby Doo cartoons. Due to my delay in conversation, the bell rang to signal the end of lunch before I could say a word. Grover quickly got up, walked his way to the trashcan where he dumped his food, stacked his tray beside it, and joined the mass of people exiting the lunchroom, all before I could get out of my seat. I looked down at my own plate and the half-eaten lunch that sat on it, cursing silently. I stuffed an untouched sack of baby carrots into my jean pocket along with a rod of string cheese, carrying an apple in my right hand and my tray with my left. I tucked the half-finished plastic chocolate milk bottle under my chin, feeling it's cold wetness against my collarbone.

I tilted the tray upside down over the trashcan, allowing my half-eaten chicken sandwich to fall into the heap of food. A glob of ketchup remained stuck to the underside of my tray, so I knocked the edge of the tray a few times onto the rim of the trash can, dislodging a portion of the ketchup, which landed with a splat atop the pile food. Satisfied, I turned quickly away from the trashcan, running directly into a girl. As my face became smothered in blond curls, my chest hit knocked into her side, causing the chocolate milk to dislodged itself from under my chin. It fell straight to the ground, bursting open and dousing her calf with its brown bubbly contents.

For an instant I just stood there mortified, aware of the snickers coming from boys and the whispered _Oh no_ 's from the girls. "Gah … shoot, sorry ... I'm so sorry." I stammered, unable to see her face from the side, my view obstructed by a turmoil of blonde girls. "Wait right here, let me grab you a napkin," I said histrionically, rushing over to the napkin dispenser, jettisoning five or six napkins, then hurrying back. Her back was still towards me as I approached; she stood hunched over, inspecting the damage done to her leg, socks and shoes.

"Here you go," I said breathlessly, extending the napkins towards her turned back. She brushed the hair over her left ear, peering over her left shoulder at me, and I shrugged apologetically. She turned fully on her heels and we stood face to face, causing my to gulp reflexively. She was tall, almost as tall as me, so our gaze was nearly eye-to-eye. Her eyes were aquiline - a startling mixture of cobalt and graphite which seemed to pin me against a wall like an insect in a collection. Her soft features were flushed with color, from which emotion I couldn't tell.

"Here you go," I repeated rigidly, further straightening my arm until it was fully extended. "Though, I guess it's probably too late though, your shoes are probably soaked through by now." I said, straining a smile. She pursed her lips and squinted at me, causing me to immediately regret my wisecrack. _Here it comes,_ I thought, expecting her to make a complete scene. Then, surprisingly, she smiled.

"How observant of you." She said lightly, extending her arm to grab the napkins. Our hands touched briefly as the napkins were exchanged; she then bent over to dab at her calf as I stood there rigidly, unsure of what to do. Once she had finished, she stood back up with a strained exhale, her face red from being bent over, and tossed the napkin into the trash. I mustered up the courage to speak as she wiped her hands on the front of her blouse.

"Need any more napkins?"

She looked down at her feet, sighed, then responded. "No use really … my socks are pretty much soaked."

"It's not all bad, chocolate milk is an excellent moisturizer." I mused, mustering a brave smile.

"Do I look like I need my feet moisturized? I'm not some shriveled old hag." She said, crossing her arms indignantly, leaning her weight onto one leg.

I let out a laugh, and just when I thought this interaction couldn't have turned out better given the circumstances, she spoke.

"You have something …." She began, squinting her eyes and focusing her gaze somewhere beneath my eyes.

"Sorry?" I said, sustaining my smile. .

"You have something right … right around here." She said, poking her two front teeth with her index finger.

For a full two seconds longer I sustained my smile; a full two seconds passed before I comprehended her gesture. When it finally sunk in, my hand surged to cover my mouth. I tugged at something lodged between my two front teeth, and extricated a fantastically green … something as big as my entire fingernail. Curious, I brought my finger back to my mouth, tugged the morsel from my finger with my teeth, and chewed it. _Spinach_ , I decided. I looked back up at her and was greeted with a look of horror.

"What? It's just spinach." I said in the midst of chewing.

"That was the grossest thing I've ever seen."

"How was it gross? It was already in my mouth." I said defensively.

There is was again: that look of scrutiny. First from the whole English class, then from Mr. Blofis, and now from this girl, with her perceptive, startling, grey eyes - _All my clothes are blue. My hair's a mess -_ again I felt my palms get clammy and a surge of warmth come from under the collar of my shirt. Before any more words were exchanged, she was pulled away by conversation, leaving me standing alone, clammy, speechless. For a while I stood there, my thoughts consumed entirely by images of her eyes, _her fantastic eyes!_

It wouldn't seem so, but the interaction was overwhelming. It had drained every ounce of energy I had. As I stood there alone, my mind replayed the reel of the interaction over and over again until I had memorized every detail. After what felt like only seconds of stillness the next bell rang signaling the beginning of the next lunch, and hungry students were beginning to pour in past me as I remained completely still. I was to be late for my final (making it every) class of the day.

My mom was waiting for me in the pick-up lane after school, sitting in the passenger seat of the Blue Corolla. I walked towards the car under the oppressive August sun; perspiration clung to my brow and tickled my side with rivulets. A flush of heat started in my scalp then travelled down the back of my shirt and into the seat of my pants; my legs felt heavy and my head felt light, and with every step my backpack dug into my shoulders. I arrived at the car and tugged on the rear door handle to find it locked. I rapped the passenger window twice and heard the mechanical click of my mom unlocking the car from the inside. After throwing my backpack carelessly in the back seat, I threw open the driver's door and sunk into the seat with a sigh of delight. I felt the flow of Air Conditioning hit the underside of my chin, travelling under my collar and deliciously cooling my chest. I could have slept that instant, if I wasn't overcome with a sudden urge to escape the property of the school. I reached over my left shoulder for the seatbelt, but only fastened it after jolting the car into motion.

"Easy there Percy." My mom chided from the passenger seat, clinging unto the door handle for effect.

I grunted absently in response, steering the car around parked minivans, past the school's parking lot, past the well-kept eastern lawn, and finally onto the road leading away from the school. In my side mirror I could see congestion forming at the front entrance of the building, where I had been minutes before. I sighed in relieved and pushed harder on the accelerator, watching the school recede into oblivion in the rear view mirror. _God I'm tired._

"Hey there." My mom began quietly. I could feel here gaze on my profile as I looked ahead at the road.

"Hey." I breathed in response. _I hope she's not in a talkative mood_.

"Anything you want to tell me?" She asked perkily, turning down the air conditioner as to reduce the noise in preparation for a conversation. _Darn._

"No, not really." I replied lazily, almost coming out as a slur. This response disappointed her, and she turned in her seat to face me, her pants squeaking against the upholstery.

"Nothing good or bad happened?" She asked, this time with more insistence

"No." I replied, not making any effort to recall the events of the day. My mind seemed shrouded in a yellow haze, opposed to exerting even the slightest effort required to produce thought. The road in front of me was at such an angle that the sun reflected off of its surface and into my eyes like stripes of flame. I reached for the sunvisor to alleviate the glare when I was overcome by a single thought: _Why am I lying?_ Suddenly the events of the day came flooding back to me: how I got lost in the hallway; how I had a fight with Grover; how I cried; how I talked with Mr. Blofis; how I bumped into - by chance - an extraordinarily pretty girl. Just as soon as I was inundated with these images, I began to sort them, filtering them in regards to their intensity and chronology, and, stumbling upon a single memory which at the present moment which so begged to be addressed, spoke to my mother.

"I spoke with my English teacher today, Mr. Blofis," I began, so abruptly that it caused my mother to jump in her seat with surprise. "He said he knew you."

My mother raised her eyebrows before responding, "Yes, I've known Paul for quite some time." _There it is again. First 'Sally' now 'Paul'._

"That's exactly what he said," I said, smirking, "how do you know each other, exactly?

At this my mother drew in a great breath and ran her hands along her thighs. I momentarily turned to look at her, and she met my gaze with a smile - a smile which suggested a profound knowledge which seemed, at the moment, almost patronizing in its secrecy. I turned back to face the road, awaiting her response. Then, she spoke.

"Paul and I dated in Grad School."

Upon hearing this I nearly convulsed; my eyes widened to their fullest extent and my hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel. For one extraordinary moment I comprehended every and all possible implications of her words, yet at the same time it felt as if I had heard nothing at all. Before any order could be restored, my mother continued.

"You could say he was my second 'serious' boyfriend. We lived together in California for three years; he worked on a soybean farm while I worked at a surf shop; he majored in education while I majored in visual arts; eventually we … stopped dating, but we've always stayed in touch." She said, in a manner which seemed almost strained, breathy. "We would have these fabulous dinners with locally produced wine, fresh food, and a view of the roiling pacific from our rooftop veranda. He was a rare breed - a romantic nerd through and through." She finished, letting out a wistful sigh.

The implications fell into place like the horrific end of tragic novel, and at once by body was overwhelmed by a violent shudder. I thought of my interaction with Paul, suddenly glad that I hadn't shook his hand. While my mother had mercifully stopped her description, I knew every detail she had so lovingly censored. It would have continued: " _Sometimes we would walk down to the beach in the evening and would make love until the sun's light replaced the moon's"_.

"I've answered your question, now you must answer mine; now tell me about your day."

I turned to face her, with eyes like a frightened animal, and let out a piteous squeak to compliment the grimace which was failing to masquerade as a smile. I sat, looking at her face, while my thoughts were consumed in layers of implications. At once she became young, in her 20s, wearing a green flowing dress with a turquoise heart hanging from her neck, resting on the skin of her collar. Her eyes were warm and her smile was wide; her skin was smooth, brown, and taut across her youthful cheeks, accentuated by flickering torchlight. The sound of waves lapping against the shoreline mixed with the rustling of leaves borne by the breeze, trickling over the veranda like a chorus of rain sticks; the moon was but a fingernail in the sky but her earrings were full, silver disks which sparkled like sunlight over water.

Her expression shifted. Her gaze shifted downwards and her eyebrows raised (in what expression … shock? amusement? ecstasy? I could not tell), a breeze picked up the hem of her dress and it billowed out from the left leg as it was pressed into her right. Her auburn hair streamed across her left shoulder as she stood: motionless, rigid, eyebrows raised, gazing intensely at ... Something. I knew, without seeing, the object of her gaze was standing right in front of her … and right behind me. I stepped back. There was Paul, kneeling. Paul was kneeling and my mother was standing. Sally was standing with her round earrings, her turquoise heart on her collar, her green dress pressed against her right leg and billowing about the left, her cheekbones prominent under the flickering torchlight - Paul was kneeling - moments passed with the sound of waves against the shore and of the breeze passing through the trees. Sally was still standing. Paul was still kneeling. A soft gray cloud passed in front of the crescent moon. My mother was screaming.

"PERCY!" She cried, grabbing hold of my right arm with her left, using her right to brace against the dashboard

A line of cars, all with illuminated brake lights extending in sequence from a distant traffic light, ended in the back of a grey car at a considerably shrinking distance away. The Corolla's tires squealed in an attempt to slow the car from 40 miles an hour to standstill; blood rushed to my face as the the car came to a stop, not a meter away from the rear bumper of a rather beat-up looking Dodge Neon. I gasped in relief, swallowed, and wiped the sweat from my palms. My mom's grip was like iron as she clung to my right arm for several seconds after we had come to a stop. She released me, but I knew I wasn't yet free from her vice.

"Percy, this is unacceptable." She began tersely, anxiously rubbing her face with her hands as the traffic ahead began to move. With strained composure, she continued, "You _have_ to pay more attention while driving. If I weren't of been here you would have rear-ended that car, Percy, and you know it."

Perhaps due to my exhaustion, anger rose in my chest. "Maybe if you hadn't been here, I wouldn't have been distracted in the first place." I snarled, pressing my foot further into the gas pedal.

"Perseus Jackson. "How can I trust you to drive on your own when you can't even handle it when I'm in the car!?" She cried, throwing her hands in the air.

"I'm not normally like this! I only have trouble driving when _you're_ in the car with me."

This retort caused my mother's tone to turn angry. "What about your friends, Percy, are they any less distracting? More than half of teen driving accidents occur in cars with t-"

"Three or more passengers in the car." I said, interrupting her, "You've recited that statistic so many times I've memorized it. Congratulations."

She sat back in her seat in a huff, and for a moment I enjoyed verbal victory as we rode on in silence. Then, she spoke, "Do we need to put you on the pills?"

 _Wow. She went there._ I subconsciously applied more pressure to the gas pedal as I played the words over again in my mind, letting the hurt fester. _Is that what you want?! It would be sooo easy for you to just drug me up like a lab rat!_ Instead of speaking these thoughts I simply sat there, knuckles white against the steering wheel, breaths short with frustration. I pressed down harder with my right foor.

"Percy, you can slow down now." My mother said, in a tone so controlled - so … motherly - that my body relaxed out of reflex. I gently eased my foot of the gas; I looked at the speedometer and saw the needle taper slowly down from 60 mph. _Jesus I was going 20 over._

Just as softly, she continued. "I'm just thinking about your safety. You know I hate the idea of you going on those pills, Percy. However, if they're the thing that keeps you alive, you have to take them. I'm still not ready to trust you to drive alone, well, with your mind and all." She said, running her hands through my hair affectionately before sitting back in her seat, clearly drained from yelling at me. Hearing her so defeated, remorse overcame me.

"I'm sorry." I said, turning to look her in the eye. She smiled warmly back but her body still betrayed anxiety. _Oh no_ \- _What have I done to her._

"I know Percy, I know." She said, and we drove on in silence.

It was later that very day, towards evening, and I was right back in the driver's seat of the Corolla with my mom sitting next to me. This time, however, Grover was seated in the back seat, stroking his beard and gazing out the window. It came as an extraordinarily relief when he had texted back: _Sure. I need a ride though,_ after I sent him an invitation to go climbing. It was nice to look in the rear view mirror and see him sitting there; his bony knees and elbows, his rasta beanie, his Yosemite National Park shirt, and even his goofy shoes were all comforting reminders that he hadn't changed. We might not be in the best of humor with one another, but we were still the same old Grover and Percy.

Inexplicably, Panic seized me and I ripped my gaze from the rear view mirror and back onto the road, expecting to see the grill of an oncoming semi barrelling towards us. Of course, there was no semi. Regardless, I kept my hands locked on the steering wheel in the 10 and 2 position, constantly correcting the car's trajectory in a compulsory attempt to stay directly in the center of my lane. My eyes darted neurotically to the needle of the speedometer as I clung carefully to the exact speed limit. In reality, my attention was so spastic that it created as much of a hazard as my normal inattentiveness. I was truly in a sad condition, afraid of my own mind.

The Climbing Gym was a warehouse across town from Northview High School. There were no signs indicating its presence, so newcomers found it almost impossible to find. The turn onto it's long gravel drive was sudden and obscured entirely by pines until you were within feet of it. I, of course, knew exactly where it was from years of going there, often with Grover. Less than a mile away from the gym was the neighborhood which contained Grover's house, as well as my house before the move into our apartment. Splitting the distance between the gym and my old house lay the decaying remains of The Project School, whose brick face had turned into wall of graffiti. I pulled the car onto the gravel road, feeling the way the car jittered and lurched from the uneven surface. The warehouse eventually came into view; its exterior, strangely, always seemed much smaller to me than its interior. Grover always agreed with me every time I remarked upon this peculiar phenomenon. I parked the car close to the front entrance, illegally, knowing that my mom would leave with the car shortly after we entered the building. Grover and I exited the vehicle, each wielding our drawstring bags filled with snacks and climbing paraphernalia, and walked silently towards the entrance. Grover swung the door open wide and entered in front of me, and, just before I could follow him, I heard my mother calling from behind my back.

"Percy!"

"Yeah?" I yelled back over the hum of the car's engine.

"You'll be safe right?"

"I will mom." I said, turning around towards the door. Again, my mother's voice sounded shrilly from behind me.

"Remember! No getting in the car with anyone who's been drinking."

"Alright mom."

"Be polite and generous to everyone you meet."

"ALRIGHT." I said impatiently, stepping backwards into the threshold of the doorway.

"And Percy,"

"What?"

"No unprotected sex!"

I threw my hands up in the air in exasperation. "It's a climbing gym, not a brothel, mom."

"I don't care if it's a nunnery! Always wear a c-"

I shut off her voice by closing the door behind me. _My god she's annoying._

The gym was packed. People milled about at the front desk, all waiting impatiently for their turn to rent a pair of climbing shoes. I overheard the over-the-desk encounter between a flustered employee and tall, thick-browed, greasy looking guy with a man-bun:

"I'm Sorry sir we're all out of size 11 _."_ The employee said breathlessly, rapping her fingernails impulsively against the counter.

The man let out a remarkably theatric sigh then reached up to unclasp his hair. He tugged off the hair band and shook his head side to side, causing frizzy black hair to spill down across his shoulders like a woman in a shampoo commercial. He threw his head back and his face emerged from his hair like curtains in a theater; intentional or not, it created a tremendous effect - almost like Frank Zappa emerging into his divine form, incinerating all those who looked upon him.

"I'll take eleven and a half then." He said finally, rendering an incredulous expressions from the employee. _Climbers are a weird breed,_ I reflected internally, before walking past the shoe line and into the gymnasium. It truly did look much larger from the inside. Multi-colored objects, of every shape imaginable, dotted every wall from floor to ceiling. The walls themselves were of every variety: straight, sloped, overhanging, some with trapezoidal prisms protruding outwards likes hideous growths (that very instant a ginger man-bun was clambering over one of these very growths on the far wall). People were grunting, talking, laughing, stretching, adjusting their harnesses and tightening their tie-dye-bandanas; chalk bags, carabiners, climbing shoes, and countless Nalgenes covered in stickers (mostly Ron Jon or Miguel's) littered the padded floors. I took a great breath of musty air, analyzing the odious mixture to be half chalk particulates and half evaporated armpit sweat. A set of industrial fans whirred in the corners to cool the un-airconditioned room. _God i've missed this_.

As my eyes finished their sweep of the room, something caught my attention. There, stood by a drinking fountain, stood her. There was no defense against it - I was entranced. Her blond curls were pulled back in a ponytail and silver earrings sparkled from under her ears; even under the harsh warehouse lighting her skin looked delicious, almost like it was glazed with honey; she wore grey tank top which promised a lithe figure underneath; black spandex leggings ( _dear god)_ clung to her toned legs and tight buttox; my eyes followed the purple stripe on her leggings, tracing it up from her ankle all the way to her hip.

"If you stare any longer you'll burn a hole through her ass." Grover said into my ear, startling me so much that I let out an audible shriek. My face burned scarlet as I turned to look at Grover, whose eyes gleamed wickedly.

"Don't do me like that, man." I said, panting.

"Apparently I did!" Grover said, laughing, "Did you hear the squeal that came out of you?"

"It was not a _squeal_!"

"Oh yeah? Then what was it?"

"It was a … a manly cry of alarm." I said, crossing my arms defensively.

"Whatever dude. Maybe you should be a _man_ and go up and talk to her."

I gazed back over to where she was standing; I almost felt my knees buckle when she reached her arms up to undo her ponytail, revealing the smooth interior of her armpits as her blonde curls tumbled around her shoulders.

"I should?" I asked, almost wheezing.

"For sure dude! Just walk up to her and give her the ol' ' _hey wuz good_ '" Grover said, demonstrating his best 'swagger' walk, tilting his chin up and lowering his voice. Seeing Grover do this was so-ridiculous, so not-Grover, it caused me to burst out laughing.

"I think she would karate chop me in the balls if I did that." I said between hiccups of laughter. At this Grover also burst into a fit of giggles. Then, composing himself and putting on the most serious of expressions, Grover assumed a menacing karate stance, holding his arms in front of his body with his palms flat. "WATAAA" Grover yelled, pantomiming a spectacular Karate chop to the balls. In moments we were reduced to a puddle of giggles, flying kicks, and horrendous kung fu cries. I was so happy at our re-connection that I didn't notice a certain someone who was approaching.

"Um….. excuse me." Said a familiar voice from behind me. I whipped my head, still in my karate stance, to come face-to-face with none other than the girl I had been examining, and who I had doused in chocolate milk earlier that day.

"You guys are kind of karate-ing on top of my bag." Said the girl, clearly suppressing a smile. She pointed to a spot on the floor next to my feet. Sure enough, there lay a pink Nike drawstring bag in between me and Grover, right at the epicenter of our battle zone.

"Gah, shoot, sorry." I stammered, scratching to the back of my neck in a pitiful attempt to play off my previous kung-fu stance.

"It's alright … just as long as you didn't kick my bag." She said, lifting the drawstring off of the ground to inspect it.

"Don't worry, we didn't hit your bag. If we did it would have been vaporized." I said; the very fibre of my being now waited in agonizing anticipation of her reaction to my joke.

To my utter joy, this got a laugh out of her. _She even has a pretty laugh._ "Kinda like you destroyed my socks earlier." She said, smiling.

"Yeah, and that was only a glimpse of my true power." I said, closing my eyes and clasping my hands as if in prayer in front of my chest.

"Very intimidating. I'm quivering in awe." She said dryly, letting her eyelids droop in boredom.

"I get it, you're just jealous." I said, raising my eyebrows arrogantly.

She laughed again. "Jealous of what, exactly?"

"Ha! I knew it! You just want to part of my underground fighting ring!" I exclaimed, crossing my arms in front of my chest, tilting my chin up high.

"You got me. I've always wanted to join the Taekwondorks." She said, resting her hands on her hips, letting her hair fall to the side.

"On no! How have you discovered our ultra-secret code name?! Grover are you hearing this." I said, directing attention towards my silent friend. Grover just stood there with an utterly confounded look on his face, his eyes moving from me to the girl like he was watching a tennis match.

"What?" was all Grover said as he continued to observe us with amazement.

Fearing the stagnation of our conversation, I turned my attention back to the girl. "So… do you need a belaying partner?" I asked, yearning to prolong our interaction.

"No, sorry, I'm about to get picked up, actually." She said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "But some other time, sure." She added quickly, "I come here a lot on the weekends. Say, I never got your name."

"Percy, what about you?"

"Annabeth."

"Unique name, Annabeth." I said, decided I like the way her name felt in my mouth when I spoke it.

"Yeah, so's yours." She said lightly, looking me in the eye. And again I was lost as details came flooding in; her lips were full, pink, and of a wonderful shape; her neck was long, smooth, and thin; her bra ( _oh god)_ lay outlined by her grey tank top; her eyes - her eyes - as dangerous and beautiful as storm clouds on the horizon; they seemed to look right through me, and I liked it. I decided then that, if I could, I could spend all day looking at her. I probably would have done just that if the moment weren't shattered by the arrival of another.

"Annabeth," Said a gruff voice from behind me. I turned my head to see a tall blonde guy approach from the front desk area. "Let's go, this place smells like ass." He said, examining the environment with disdain. He seemed to be a few years older than me, a freshmen of sophomore in college. He was brutally handsome; striking, pale blue eyes shone from a colorless, angular face. He took another step forward and, catching the glare from an overhanging light fixture, a long, white scar popped into view, travelling from under his left eye all the way to his jaw. His presence seemed to manifest as a cold, icy dumbbell crushing my chest; in a cruel instant, all of the previous warmness I felt with Annabeth was utterly dispelled. His eyes passed over me arrogantly, causing me to reflexively gulp.

"See you later, Percy." Annabeth said softly, glancing at my eyes and giving a sheepish smile. She slung the drawstring bag around her shoulders and walked over to blonde guy, who slung his arm around her shoulder possessively.

At that moment it seemed that the very order of nature was perverted. The very juxtaposition of her soft, warmness with his hard, coldness made me shudder. I felt I was witnessing a kidnapping, and I was a fearful, complacent bystander. Though I didn't recognize it at the time, guilt was what I felt as I saw the two of them walk out the door and into the night - guilty of my own lack of strength.

Indeed it was weakness that pervaded my every experience that night. While climbing I felt weak, and while standing I felt winded. I felt neither full nor hungry. I sat in silence as Grover ate the sandwich he had packed in his bag, while mine remained untouched. I refused to drive home that night, eliciting a look of concern from my mother (which I failed to recognize). I didn't say good-bye to Grover as we dropped him off, and I didn't thank my mom for giving us a ride. I didn't shower or brush my teeth that night before I lay my head on the pillow.

For a while I lay on my bed, not bothering to turn off my bedside lamp, staring at the chair in the corner of my room. My jeans lay draped across the back of the chair and on the floor, having fallen from the pocket of the jeans, lay a rod of string cheese and a bag of baby carrots. I drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep wondering how on earth they had gotten there.


	3. Chapter 3 part 1

I woke up next morning feeling remarkably alert. Consciousness seemed to emerge as a continuation of my dream, rather than the usual alarm-blaring crisis. I rolled to the side of my bed and checked the digital clock on my bedside table - 6:40. I sighed in relief and sank back into my pillow. _I've got plenty of time. I should try for a few more minutes of sleep_ , I thought, flopping onto my right side. However, after trying to close my eyes only to have them fling back open, I ripped off the covers and leapt out of bed. Being August, the sun had already crested the horizon, and the window blind at the foot of my bed glowed with promise of a sublime eastern sky. I walked over to the window and flung open the blinds. I had to squint slightly, but there was the sun, sitting as an ornate orange sphere framed between the trunks of two parallel pines, piercing though the branches and filling my being with contentment. After a tremendous yawn and a satisfying sneeze, I made my way over to the dresser, peered into the top drawer, and selected the pair of briefs which appeared to have the least holes in them. Then, hopping around on one foot, I inserted one leg the then other before pulling them up to my waist. Looking back over the dresser, something, a person or a face, caught my eye.

The face belonged to myself. My hair was the longest and lightest it had ever been, framing my face like the mane of a lion, obscuring all of my ears except for the little balls of my earlobes. My face was deeply tanned and my cheeks were dusted with freckles. A button of a nose sat above a open mouth full of adolescent teeth with gaps between them. The only article of clothes I wore, a pair of beige shorts, were without a belt and hung low, showing the elastic waistband of my underwear. I was dangling from an overhead branch, revealing a hairless, pale pair of armpits. The lines of my ribcage showed from the beneath the skin of my sides. My feet were bare and covered in dirt; bruises and scrapes trailed up from them and along my shins, but my smile gave no sign of noticing. It was not a cheesy or a wide smile, but instead a relaxed one; one which managed to captured the natural, effortless essence of childhood joy. My eyes, which gazed directly into the camera and therefore directly at me, were profoundly green and intense, made wild by the mess of hair around them. I looked like a feral creature - an inquisitive lion cub with the promise of, come age, becoming a fearsome predator. For a sublime instant I became him; I felt the touch of a warm summer breeze caress my cheek, I heard the sound of leaves borne by the wind mingle with a distant chiming of bells, I felt my heart thump in my chest and the stretch of my arms above my head, I felt the mystery of the world.

Following a sudden and intense compulsion, I hurriedly set the photograph back down on the dresser. I felt as if, just by looking at the photograph any longer, it would burn up - turn to ash and take with it the memory it held. I was twelve in the photograph, existing in a state which was chaotic yet calm, hysterical yet care-free, in total oblivion to the impending maelstrom of puberty and the existential thoughts which came with it. I was now seventeen, I realized with a start, and would never in my life be twelve again.

The photograph remained in the front of my mind as I rummaged around in my dresser, looking for a shirt to wear. The tree I hung from was a great big pine which sat overlooking the valley of camp; below me would have spread the strawberry fields (always producing a divine smell), the stables (my favorite horse had always been Blackjack, a tremendous black stallion whom I would visit daily and give sugar cubes to, and with whom I shared a deep, wordless connection), the cluster of cabins (cabins were Ancient-Greece mythology themed, and campers were sorted into cabins based on their 'godly parent'; everyone, of course, was jealous of the older campers who got to be members of the 'big three' cabins: Zeus, Poseidon (which I was in) and Hades), the canoe lake (where I had nearly … nearly … had my first kiss with Rachel Dare, at the time a fellow camper (she got to be the camp 'oracle')), the woods (at the end of every week the woods were the theater for an epic hundred-acre simulated battle called war games, complete with wooden swords, war paint, dulled arrows, the lot). Perched atop the hill opposite the pine tree would sit the big house, just down the hill from it the dining pavilion, and just down from that the climbing wall. That was the view I would see every time I entered camp, and, looking over my shoulder one last time, every time I left.

Though it was still early August and I had only been gone from camp for two weeks now, it felt eons away. That was the mystery of camp. During the summer it consumed all of reality; while there, it seemed the outside world didn't exist. At camp all thoughts were engaged solely to the exquisite present moment and nothing else, nothing but the smell of strawberries, the glittering surface of the canoe lake, and the mellow strumming of a guitar around the campfire. During the rest of the year, camp seemed to sink into the hills, gone until its glorious June renaissance. I pulled an orange camp shirt out from the bottom of the drawer, making a mess of the neatly folded shirts above it. CHB read in black letters on the front. I pulled it over my head and tugged the bottom down to my waist.

Suddenly inspired, I walked back over to my bedside table and picked up the beaded necklace which sat on it. I pulled the necklace over my head, catching the musty scent of leather. I could feel the leather cord tug at the back of my neck and the weight of the beads dangling against my chest. I reached up and cupped the beads in my palm, bringing them closer to my face to study. Each bead commemorated a summer spent at camp, strung chronologically from my right collar to my left. The very left bead (to an observer the very right bead) marked the passage of the first summer I was a counselor. It marked a transition; no longer was I the feral, long haired boy hanging from the tree, devoid of any responsibility. I was a counselor now, and with that came the need for courage, maturity, and leadership - I brought a hand up pick my nose, tugging a satisfyingly long booger from my nostril before flicking it across the room. _Courageous and mature, that's me._

After another eye-watering yawn and yet another voluminous sneeze, my stomach began to rumble. Deciding to put on pants later, I made my way out my room and towards the narrow flight of stairs which led down to the kitchen. However, nearing the top of the stairs, I caught my reflection in a mirror at the end of the hallway. My hair was apocalyptic. The hair on the right side of my head was completely flattened from being mashed by the pillow, while the hair on the left side of my head had remarkably organized itself into a single, massive cowlick. I jostled the flattened hair and tried to press down the cowlick, but when I removed my hands no progress had been made. I sighed and stepped closer to the mirror. Sparse stubble lingered above my upper lip, under my chin, and below by ears. My nostrils appeared to have grown wider. My adam's apple protruded further. My eyebrows had grown thicker. My jaw had grown angular and my cheeks less round. It seemed that the child in the photograph was all but gone, gone except in the eyes. In those, his essence shone with a defiant roar, unwilling to be extinguished, straining to break free. I ran my hands through my hair and started down the stairs.

Sunlight poured into the kitchen through the window above the sink, painting the farther half of the countertop and a portion of the wall behind it a soft orange. A Cardinal's call came from outside - dooo-weet ... dooo-weet … dooo-weet … dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet …... dooo-weet ... dooo-weet … dooo-weet … dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet-dweet. I opened the refrigerator door and the Cardinal's song mixed with the low-pitched hum of the freezer. There were no eggs, no leftovers, and no yogurt. In the back of the fridge a three-day old salmon steak covered in plastic wrap sat soggily on a plate. I closed the door with a grimace. I opened the pantry and, to my delight, found a cereal container. I grabbed the box from the cupboard, shook it like a rattle, and discerned it to be half-full and probably not too stale. I pulled the cereal box down from the shelf, and something caught my eye. A small plastic bottle sat where it had been obscured by the cereal box. The bottle was entirely blue, and about the size and shape of an eyedropper. I recognized it immediately, and at once the memories came flooding in: my mom and I were gathered around the kitchen table at our old house. She wore an apron covered in yellow and purple flowers and dark green house slippers. My feet dangled two feet off the ground as I sat on one of the stools, knife and fork in hand. I watched from across the room as my mom stirred the pancake batter, taking the blue bottle and squeezing one-two-three-four drops of blue food dye into the mixture, stirring it up, then pouring it into the skillet. She would drop it, steaming hot, on my plate, and I would devour it before the next pancake would even make it into the pan. We repeated this process until I was as bloated as a toad and my teeth were a sickening blue and syrup was smeared all around my lips and chin.

Putting blue dye into foods had started as a method to get me to eat certain things. I wouldn't touch cottage cheese, for example, unless my mother assured me it was actually lumpy blue alien brains. I wouldn't eat pork unless it came from a sapphire sow, and I wouldn't eat eggs unless they came from a cobalt chicken. Mom would purchase blue food dye in bulk and store it in the cupboard, just within reach if I stood atop the radiator on the old kitchen floor. I'd grown out of my blue food phase around middle school, back when we lived at the old house. Apparently this bottle had made the move into our new apartment. I smiled to myself and took the bottle into my hand…..

My mouth was already a hideous black-blue after only a few bites of cereal. My mother pointed this out to me as she shuffled lethargically into the kitchen in her morning gown and slippers, hair a tangled mess.

"Feeling nostalgic?" She asked, sliding onto a stool across the counter, cupping a wide mug of coffee between her hands.

"Yeah … not quite as good as I remembered it." I said, giving her a wide-mouthed blue grimace. "It kinda tastes like playdough."

She laughed, "I didn't even know we had any of that stuff left."

"Neither did I. I found it in the pantry behind the cereal box and thought 'what the heck'."

"Apparently." She said, pausing to sip her coffee. "Open your mouth again I want to see."

I opened my mouth wide and she leaned in across the counter, lightly holding my lower jaw open with her hand and craning her neck to peer into my mouth.

"Your teeth are appalling Percy, you have to brush all of the blue out of your mouth before you leave this morning."

"Hmph," I grunted in reply.

"And kill that perv stache while you're at it. There's shaving cream in the bathroom cabinet."

I gave her a wide-eyed stare but she was busy unfolding a newspaper and splaying it out across the counter. I huffed and dropped my head back towards my cereal bowl. I discretely felt my upper lip with the back of my hand, it was coarse and bristly, as was my chin.

"Oh my gosh." She remarked suddenly, staring at the newspaper..

"What? What is it?" I chirped, half-chewing a bite of cereal.

She rotated the newspaper on the counter so it faced me. She pointed to a column on the back side of the front page, a small, four-paragraph expose piece under wide picture. A four-member band played on a hard-wood stage in what looked to be some sort of music club. There was a drummer, bassist, and two guitarists, all dressed in ostentatious floral shirts, khaki shorts, and what looked to be whigs.

"Why are they dressed so hideously?" I asked, looking up at my mother, who gave me a steely glance in return.

"Never mind that Percy, did you see who it was?" She asked, insisting that I look again.

I looked back over the photo with newfound interest, letting my spoon rest in my cereal bowl. _What is she talking about? Who am I supposed t- …. Oh_. "Oh!" I exclaimed, nearly spewing blue liquid across the table. The guitarist on the right, sporting a ghastly pineapple yellow button-up, was none other than Mr. Blofis. I swallowed the bite in the mouth without chewing and spoke at an obnoxious volume, "That's! That's! That's….gah shoot thats … "

"Mr. Bl-."

"Mr Blofis!" I roared, interrupting my mom, "That's who it is! Oh my god he looks ridiculous!"

"I don't think it's ridiculous, it's all part of hi-"

"You don't think it's ridiculous? Look at his wig! It looks like a taxidermied muskrat!" I speed, interrupting my mom again.

My mom let out a small laugh before responding, "I'll give you that, the wig is hideous, but it's all part of his band's ensemble."

"Which is what?"

"Surf Music. They're a surf band, Percy. Khaki shorts, bright floral shirts, bleached hair, tattered sandals, the lot."

"I didn't even notice the tattered sandals." I said, bringing another blue spoonful to my mouth.

I saw a flash from the corner of my eye. My mom had brought the coffee mug up to her mouth and the ceramic passed through a sun beam."I agree with you that the presentation is a bit tacky. But make no mistake Percy, they are serious musicians."

"Really."

"Yes Percy. Have you ever heard of the Aquaholics?"

 _Gah! That was it!_ , I realized with a start, remembering the poster above Mr. Blofis' desk. "They're the Aquaholics!?" I said incredulously, mostly to myself

"Mmmhhmm," Sally responded, taking a sip from her mug as the ceramic flashed in the yellow sunlight. "They're pretty well known around here. I can tell you recognize the name."

"Yeah, I've heard it before…" I said, the energy of the conversation suddenly tapering off. My mom went back to studying the newspaper while I sat in silence, pondering this new development. "I guess -" I began, my mom looking up from her newspaper, "I guess I don't know what to make of Mr. Blofis". I concluded, letting out a heavy sigh, staring at a trapezoidal panel of yellow sunlight on the opposite wall, at the same time nothing at all. My mom's coffee mug made a soft thud as she set it down on the counter, gently disturbing my attention.

"He is a very interesting man." She said, perceptibly immobile and staring absent mindedly just as I was. Silence reigned. My cereal was finished. I delivered my bowl to the sink and turned the faucet on; a laminar stream of water collided with the dark blue milk in the bottom of the bowl. The blue became more and more faded as the water rose until there was hardly any blue at all, at which point I turned the bowl over, dumping the gurgling contents into the sink basin, and set the bowl aside. The cardinal's song came from the window. I turned my head and looked at the green reading on the stove-top clock - 7:05. Still plenty of time. I traversed the kitchen as my mother sat in silence and made my way back up the narrow stairs to the study which was my bedroom …

The choice I faced of which pair of pants to wear flummoxed me so much that I flung myself on my bed in exasperation. As my head landed on the bed my eyes found the ceiling and my mind found its way back to the photograph - I hung from the great pine overlooking the valley, a gust of wind playing the chimes and causing the leaves to rustle. Just as soon I was at the climbing gym, where objects of all colors and shapes dotted the walls. Again just as soon I was in Mr. Blofis classroom, talking of polar bears, surf music, and hydroponic gardens. An extemporaneous impulse drove me to sit up. The sun had risen even more and sunlight reflected off of the guitar which sat in the corner of the room - a celestial beckoning to which I relented.

It was two years and a month ago when the head counselor of the Apollo cabin told me I had musician's fingers. He was charming and I was a sucker for compliments so we sat down with his guitar on one of the amphitheater benches. My fingers, after all, were long and slender and G C and D came without too much straining. Three chords was all he showed me that day, G C, and D - 1, 4 and 5 respectively, so by the end of the summer, songs by Steve Miller, Van Morrison, John Prine, and Bob Dylan became easy, mindless repetitions of a single pattern - 1, 4, and 5. Then I learned E minor and the world of music opened up. With four chords - just four - I conquered the Beatles, Eagles, Tom Petty, and all the god awful millennial songs like "Hey Soul Sister" and the infamously heinous "I'm Yours". My fingers surged ahead as my voice struggled to keep up, hampered by puberty and poor technique. Summer ended so my mom bought me a guitar to play during the school year, sacrificing her dreamt-of soaking bath tub. She threatened that I would have to raise enough money to buy her a bathtub myself, id I didn't practice the thing every day, so I did.

I sat on my bed as sunlight poured in, E changed to F# minor changed to G# minor, which descended back down to F# minor, and back to E. I picked up the haunting vocal line on the fifth scale degree as the progression restarted.

 _Crossroads -_  
 _Seem to come and go -_  
 _Ye-ah_

 _The Gypsy flies  
_ _From coast to coast -_

The alphabetical building line started - A Bm C#m D E F#m G#m - a tough series of bar chords made harder by my lounging position.

 _Knowing many loving none -  
_ _Bearing sorrow having fun_ -

"Fun" had always been a difficult pitch to hit, landing on the 7th scale degree of E.

 _But back home he'll always run -_

B rang out triumphantly, strong yet agonizing for resolution.

 _To Sweet Melissa_ -

My voice landed soothly on the 10th as the progression found its way home, to E. I let the chord ring out for several moments, suddenly disinterested with continuing. _Fitting, I thought,_ _The chords find their way home just as the lyrics do._ I pondered this for a prolonged instant, and just as soon I thought of my mom wearing her apron covered in yellow and purple flowers, I thought of her dark green house slippers and the smell of pancakes and the one-two-three-four drops of blue dye landing in the batter. _Home,_ I thought, coming to an indecipherable realization, _where is home_? My hands found their way subconsciously to Am as I pondered. This, in turn, drove my thoughts away from the question of home to the lyrics of House of the Rising Sun. After that came John Prine, after Prine came Dylan, then McCartney, then - _7:27!?_ 7:27 read irrevocably in rigid red numbers on the digital clock on my bedside table. 33 minutes until school started and here I sat, unshaven, unwashed, with a guitar in my lap, and no pants. On cue my mother's voice sounded from downstairs,

"You almost ready Percy?"

"Dah.. Yeah." I called back down, scrambling off of my bed, hurriedly depositing my guitar on its stand. I ran my hands anxiously through my mangled hair and sighed. The sun shone brightly now, and I had to squint to look out the window. The Cardinal's call came from outside. I was going to be late, I decided, and fell back onto my bed.


	4. Chapter 3 part 2

The rain had just started. The leaves outside began to stir and rustle, and the omnipresent whisper of raindrops soon enveloped the room. I let The Great Gatsby fall face-open into my lap so I could look to the window; Mr. Blofis had the blinds open but not drawn, so I could see fairly well through the horizontal slats. The sky was a moody grey which made me feel very comfortable and happy in the pink bean-bag chair. I reached down to the right and picked up the cardboard milk carton which sat on the plastic lunch tray. I sipped it contentedly and felt no obligation to stop staring at the rain when a dribble of milk plopped onto my collar.

"Mr. Blofis?" I asked, laying down so so I could rest the milk carton on my chest.

"Hmm-mm?" Said Mr. Blofis, raising his eyebrows but not taking his eyes off the computer screen which cast a blue glow onto his face.

"Would you rather go to heaven or hell?"

Mr. Blofis took his eyes off of the screen, and peered at me over the top of his bifocals. "Heaven. Read Gatsby."

"Hmm." I said, taking another sip of milk, craning my neck forward in my lounging position. "Mr. Blofis?"

"Hmm-mm?"

"Suppose there is a question. A yes or no question, and if you get it right you go to heaven, and if you get it wrong you go to hell."

"Hmm-mm." Said Mr. Blofis, not taking his attention off the screen, his eyes moving from left to right behind his blue-illuminated glasses.

"Don't you want to know the question?"

Mr Blofis stopped his typing and turned to stare at me, so I raised my eyebrows expectantly towards him, licking the milk off of my upper lip. Mr. Blofis let out a long exhale through his nostrils then turned back to look towards the screen. "What?"

I smiled, "Do heaven and hell exist?"

At this Mr. Blofis' stubbornness was finally broken. The blue glow on his glasses switched off and he swivelled in his chair to face me. "Percy, you know that it is inappropriate for me, as your teacher, to a-"

" - It's only us two in the room. And I surely don't care." I interrupted, "It's hypothetical anyways." With this I took another sip of milk.

Mr. Blofis sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. "No."

"No what?"

"No, they don't exist."

I smiled, "Wrong." I said, in the most impudent tone I could conjure.

Mr. Blofis noticeably winced at this, and it gave me enormous pleasure to see him in this much discomfort. He looked at me with incredulity.

"Wrong?"

"Wrong."

"How could you possibly know the correct answer?"

I took another sip of milk. I shook the container, and discovered that I had a sip left at most. I set it back down on the tray in disappointment.

"Almost empty." I said, as if answering his question, again licking the milk streak off of my upper lip. Mr. Blofis looked in pain. He let out a soul-extinguishing sigh and shimmied his chair back over to his desk. I spoke as soon as the blue glow returned to his face.

"Wrong, because you condemned yourself with your answer."

The blue glow immediately went out again and then he spoke in a voice close to outrage, "Is it your goal to prevent me from answering this e-mail by hounding me with incessant nonsense? And why am I condemned?"

I smirked, sat up-right, and spoke with smug conviction, "If you are correct in saying they don't exist, then you don't go to either place. If you are wrong, however, then you are sent to hell."

I continued through Mr. Blofis' slack-jawed expression, "If you had instead answered 'yes', and got it wrong, then, since heaven and hell _don't_ exist," I put emphasis on the word 'don't', which caused his eye to twitch reflexively and seemed to have the effect of a dagger stabbed into his brain, "you can't be sent to either place. Of course if you had gotten it correct then you would go to heaven." I took a big breath before continuing on. "So, by saying 'yes' you guarantee that your worst fate is not going anywhere, and by saying 'no' you disqualify yourself from ever going to heaven." With this I picked up my milk, drained the last few drops into my mouth, flung the carton across the room and into the trashcan, then followed it all up with an emphatic belch.

This sequence seemed to have deflated Mr. Blofis entirely, for all he did now was stare absent-mindedly at the empty lunch tray on the floor, his glasses now resting crookedly on his face. The sound of rain prevailed. A car drove down the school drive outside the window, making a sound like a muffled hiss as it trudged a path through the rain. Finally Mr. Blofis awakened enough to adjust his glasses and speak.

"What page are you on, Percy?"

I looked at the upper-right hand corner of the page, "Two."

"Two. You're on page two."

"Well, the bottom of it, so almost page three."

The look of incredulity returned to his face, "What have you been doing this whole lunch period?"

I shifted in my bean-bag chair and looked outside the window for the answer to his question. Just as I began creating a response, the end-of-lunch bell rang. I dog-eared page two and shut the book with a clap.

"Look at that! Lunch period is over, and with it my obligation to read."

I got up from the bean bag chair and started to make my way back to my desk when Mr. Blofis called out from behind me.

"If I were you I would spend less time being clever and more time reading. I'm cutting you enormous slack, Percy, don't take it for granted."

"Well, sorry." I said, realizing immediately I had used the wrong tone. The playful insolence I had been just using unintentionally bled into my apology, making it sound horrifically insincere. Mr. Blofis just shook his head and turned his attention back to his screen and, before I could muster up the courage to remedy my apology, a familiar voice sounded from next to me.

"What's up Percy?"

It was Grover, his rasta cap resting slightly left from centered on his head today; he was the first one in the classroom and was followed by a mass immigration of lethargic students coming back from lunch. He seemed excited to tell me something.

"Nothing much, just reading." I said, turning Gatsby over in my hand. We both sat down at our table. I, as usual, sat in the corner so I could survey the rest of the room. Grover scratched his beard.

"Why weren't you at lunch today?" Grover asked.

"I ate in here. Had to get some reading done." I said dejectedly. Grover noticed my tone.

"Well you _should_ have come to lunch today." Grover said, leaning forward in his chair.

"Why's that?"

"Annabell was there."

"She was?" I said at a loud volume, perking up in my chair. Two girls from the adjacent table stared at me, then danced their eyes away from mine. Grover smiled.

"Yep. She wants to go climbing."

"When?" I asked, trying to sound disaffected.

"Tonight."

I felt a tingling in my chest and knees. Feelings of excitement momentarily clashed with the shame I felt for blowing off Mr. Blofis, mixed themselves into a strange amalgam and left me feeling confused, but good.

"I'll go." I said, again trying to sound disinterested, picking at my fingernails.

"And her boyfriend won't be there." Grover said casually, unzipping his backpack and extracting his notebook.

"Really?" I said, trying not to show my internal backflips, "And how the heck do you know that?"

"Her boyfriend is at College in Boulder." Grover set his notebook on the table with a thwop.

"He's in Colorado and they're still dating?" I asked, somewhat out of protest, contorting my face in disbelief.

"She said that they never verbally broke up. She's calling it a 'caesura' in their relationship."

"A say-a-who? And how the heck did you find out all of this information." I demanded, again drawing stares from the girls at the adjacent table. Again their eyes danced away.

"A Caesura. She said it means a pause or break. I learned by overhearing it in a conversation, a conversation _you_ should have been part of." Grover said, pointing a pen at me, "You should be meeting new people like I've been doing instead of hiding in the English room, pretending to read your book."

"Oh don't act so wise Grover. I had a great ol' time hanging out with Mr. Blofis." I replied, half-jokingly.

"Your a loser. You're a loser who's afraid to meet people."

"New people meet me, I don't meet new people."

"Your a loser who's full of himself."

"So be it. Tonight?"

"Tonight." Grover said, smiling. His foot was tapping under the table. His rasta hat had shifted so now it sat nearly falling off the right side of his head. He produced a bag of baby carrots he had smuggled out of the lunchroom and was now eating them noisily. I realized then just how lucky I was to have Grover as my friend. I wouldn't let him know it, of course.

"Its Annabeth." I said, staring outside at the rain.

"What?"

"It's Annabeth. You said Annabell."

Grover said nothing, opting instead to eat the carrot in his hand, but I couldn't help but notice the sideways glance he gave me. _Tonight,_ I repeated internally. My fantasy unfolded like this: _I stand, my stance wide, giving words of encouragement to Annabeth as she struggles up the face of the wall. Her arms begin to shake; "Percy! I'm falling!" She yells, and with pitiful resignation she falls - or, in my mind, flutters, like a leaf - down from the wall, right into my waiting arms. "Careful, Annabeth." I say soothingly, looking down into her eyes. Adoration sweeps across her face. Her lips quiver in anticipation as I lean in to -_

" _Hey!" Her boyfriend shouts, appearing behind me, his hair spiked, clad in a leather jacket. He charges towards me, fists clenched. I, in a single, fluid motion, toss Annabeth down onto the soft crash pads and, with a deft and skillfully placed first, send the assailant flying backwards. His head hits the wall with a sickening crunch and he slumps into unconsciousness. I crack my knuckles and wipe the sweat off of my brow, just as Annabeth's voice sounds from behind me. "Percy, I'm over here." She coos, supine and sultry on the pads. I waste no time a-_

"Percy!" Mr. Blofis calls, standing next to my desk.

"Huh - who? What?" I stammer, recoiling in my chair from the sudden intrusion.

"Why don't you join the class on page one-thirteen please." He said, picking up the book from the table and placing it in my hands. I mutter an apology and open the book.

"So," continued Mr. Blofis. "Fitzgerald really focuses his description of the party to highlight its excess. As Connor pointed out earlier we have this party-goer in 'trembling opal' throwing down champagne; Lucy pointed out the distraught sobbing wife; Andrew pointed out the woman passed out on the sofa in a 'deep, veinous sleep'. You really develop this sense of falsehood and d -"

Mr. Blofis' words faded out and the words on the page became blurry. I rubbed my eyes and I looked outside at the rain, allowing a yawn to escape unrestrained as the rain drowned out all other noise.

 _Now… where was I…?_


End file.
